Maw
by Magpie05
Summary: Batman stews and Joker giggles. Bruce Wayne is confuzzled. Arkham Asylum pulses darkly, looming like a nightmare, larger than life. Batman/Joker slash.
1. Echoes of Myst

Title: Maw

Chapter One: Echoes of Myst

Summary: Batman stews and Joker giggles. Bruce Wayne is confuzzled. Arkham Asylum pulses darkly, looming like a nightmare, larger than life.

Pairing: Batman/Joker, der ;P

Warnings: Sorta graphic imagery I guess... Nothing too offensive yet.

A/N: Beta'd by RavynneRune! Thanks love, owe you lots :3 Constructive criticism and/or gushing is welcome of course, flames will be eaten and shat on :D

* * *

Blue tendrils of fog crept across the flat roof of a short and sturdy-looking office building. The mists swirled, momentarily disturbed by the whispering movement of a shadow. In an instant the heavy moisture pooled back into the space created, coloring the air opaque. A grappling hook whizzed through the haze and thudded dully into the side of a nearby structure, the skyscraper's tall sides disappearing into the dark gloom above. A black cape fluttered in the still night, following the course of the grappling hook, as Batman swung onto a jutting ledge of steel and concrete.

Retracting the batgrappler, the Dark Knight cursed under his breath, the noise muffled in the stuffy atmosphere. His uttered oath echoed back at him, caught in the encircling fog. A few feet was the extent of his visual perimeter; "blind as a bat" was not a phrase Batman enjoyed hearing. Wrapping his heavy cape around him like a cloak, he blocked out the cold and damp, focusing instead on looking through the impassible brume into the streets below. Black pointed ears twitched as faint laughter ghosted through the pocket of space he stood in, tickling his ear drums and chasing a shiver up his spine. He pivoted quickly, pressing a button to switch his radar vision on, but there was nothing.

Batman straightened slowly, his hand instinctively hovering near a batarang which hung on his utility belt. Mentally, he ran through a checklist of the homicidal madmen that regularly haunted Gotham City, as the batradar silently bounced back to him. Nothing stirred the heavy clouds which had earlier descended from, and filled, the sky. The night was eerily quiet. Sorting through the list revealed nothing, most of the maniacs had been caught, carefully filed and put away for further study. Even the Joker was out of action. Harley Quinn, his loyal henchwench, had recently gone straight, clean of even the smallest of petty thefts for over a year now. She hopefully would not risk a breakout attempt for her "Mistah J." Pamela Isley as well had been cleared for human consumption. The two ladies were running a small, but successful plant boutique and pharmaceutical, focusing on natural remedies rather than miracle cure-all drugs. So far it appeared legit, but Batman kept a rigid thumb pressed upon their green endeavors. They would have to deal with the Bat, and the entire police force, breathing down their necks and watching their every movement if they hoped to atone for the past.

However, besides the two born again normals, the rest of the persistent maniacs had been located and thwarted. Arkham Asylum's walls were no doubt filled to pop with its brutally unstable wards. Batman imagined the bodies packed and squirming in the hot sick atmosphere of the place, stuffed in corners, hallways, basements, closets. A shuddering mass of twisted flesh, a self-sustained organism, feeding off the fears created as its reputation bulked ever darker, looming on the edge of conscious thought. Batman, shadow of the night, provided a never-ending supply of criminals to the institution. He wondered idly how there could possibly be enough room for them all.

_There wasn't, _he concluded._ They escaped. Quite often in fact. One would think they were unhappy there…_

A grim chuckle escaped Batman's mouth. Keeping the radar vision on, he released the grappling hook once again, adjusting to the altered view of the neighborhood.

The psychopaths deserved the treatment they were given at Arkham; rehabilitation into society was the ultimate goal. No matter the methods necessary to achieve this… If reform was even possible, it was worth the inhumanity.

Gritting his teeth, Batman soared into the dark mists.

oOoOo

Joker grinned, cackling quietly to himself under the bright lights. He sat dead center in the utterly blank cell, facing the back wall. The shining white of the place was so powerful it hurt sometimes. There were no shadows even to keep him company. It was 3 AM and the lights were on. They were always on. It was a new brand of therapy the docs had patted themselves on the backs fervently for. Don't shut off the lights. No "lights out," no bad dreams. No sleeping for the whack jobs at Arkham. Dreaming was dangerous. Clever schemes of escape were out of the question if one was too exhausted to count past seven. For the moment at least, they were all stuck in the nuthouse. The crazies knocking against each other like marbles in a fish bowl. Poked and prodded and electro shocked till their glassy eyes sizzled, and occasionally popped. "Oh well" if one was lost on the couch; at least the body count was more manageable. The tragic loss of an inmate by the hands of the caring only meant there was one less mind to cleanse. One more corrupt shell of a person with less potential than a steak knife had been saved, delivered from this cruel world into another. No more babbling to themselves in a corner, they were in a better place now. So the doctors said. Joker imagined they all ended back here anyway. The ultimate joke, weren't they all going to hell? Arkham Asylum _was _hell. They were already there; this _was_ the "better place." Death cleansed nothing. _Tabula rasa _was not included in the package deal of Rebirth. When a new face showed up at the asylum it was like an old friend coming home. It probably was an old friend coming home. The one constant that existed, there would always be more.

Lack of sleep caused tempers to run high and the lines of reality to blur, but as long as they couldn't _think,_ the psychoanalysts were happy. Joker's arms were restricted by a straightjacket, tightly wrapped around his sides in a twisted parody of an embrace. He couldn't even cover his own face, shield against the fluorescent bulbs which illuminated the sterilized environment.

"If the lights are on and no one's home, what's the sense in knocking?" Joker shrieked with laughter. "Just walk right in, trample mud over the pristine floors and lush carpets, spatter blood across the walls, make pretty pictures with the red, red, reeeed," he chanted in a high falsetto. "Mommy and Daddy won't get mad, they've gotten lost." He grinned and licked his chapped lips. "Honey, I'm home! What's for dinner, Muffin?" He scooted closer to the wall and ran his pink tongue up it. "Hmm, salty _bat muffins_ for supper…" He giggled and thudded his forehead against the cool surface of the whitewashed concrete. A sharp pain blossomed through his skull. Closing his eyes he saw red sparks as light tried to pry its way inside. His eyelashes fluttered, caked mascara colored them black. One luxury the doctors let him keep, his makeup. His lipstick at least he couldn't live without, throwing a fit the first time they tried to take it away from him. It was like Harvey's coin, or Ivy's plants, not that she was here anymore…

"And good riddance," Joker grumbled. "The creeping vine…" he stuck his tongue out, making a face at the corner. Then he pressed up against it; the mascara was making his eyes itch.

"Oo, the bed!" he gleefully erupted. Crawling over on his knees he face planted against the sheets, leaving black smears as he rubbed off the paint.

"Much better, even if I do look a fright." Cackling again he rocked onto his back and kicked his legs in the air. No one would keep Joker drained; he'd make his own energy even without sleep.

A sharp clanging came from nearby. Joker froze.

"Shut. _UP._ Joker!" Harvey growled, his coin rolling to a stop on the floor of his own cell, having thrown it against the glass in frustration.

"Why? Sleeping's not allowed anyway!" Joker whooped, climbing to his feet, awkwardly without the aid of his arms. "I know! Let's _dance!_" He squealed happily and twirled in his cell, kicking at the glass, concrete, and steel of the bed, creating a rhythm.

Two-Face leaned against the junction of glass and cell wall farthest from the Joker's residence, the one angle he could catch a glimpse of the clown's antics. He shook his head, the pleasant side of his mouth twitching up into an almost-smile. Reaching for his fallen coin he flipped it into the air, watching it spin. The double headed silver landed softly in his mangled palm. Harvey sighed. Turning from the sight of the neighboring whirling dervish, he returned to his unkempt bed.

Joker continued to twirl, but slower now. The grin slipped off his face, fell to the floor and shattered into a broken frown, the pieces glimmering like tiny red jewels. He brushed the shards under the bed with his foot.

"No one but Bats will dance with me." Joker teetered on his tiptoes, hips swaying slightly. His long green hair hung in sad-looking dread locks in front of his pale face. The docs didn't care enough to trim it, as he nipped at anyone who came too near. He used it as a curtain, hiding behind it when the questions grew too deep. The roots were beginning to fade, they never let him dye it. Makeup was one thing, but green hair? That was just, wrong.

Prancing lightly over to the wall, he kissed it, leaving a red mark. "'Night, Sweet Cheeks." He tapped his forehead against the surface, eyes crossing as he tried to keep the mark in sight. "I've got to go, Honey Pie. Daddy's missing and someone needs to rescue him. Mommy will be all right, she always finds her way back." Joker blinked, his eyes were burning.

"If I didn't know any better, this would be a _Rorschach test _and you…" he leaned closer to the bright red lipstick mark, inspecting it with one eye. "You would be a _bat!"_ He giggled, but sobered quickly. "Unfortunately, I do know better and you're just a silly old smudge on the wall. Not even _blood, _that's no fun!" Blowing a raspberry at it he abandoned the cherry red blot and tripped onto his bed.

"Catch me if I swoon too soon?" He lay on his face, smashing it into the flat, utterly non-fluffy, prison issue pillow.

"Thanks, Bats. Always were a lifesaver." Joker's conscious escaped him as he passed out into a darkness which no light could follow. He would be lucky if he caught two or three hours of blessed renewal.

Lucky.

Right.


	2. Glowing Hearth

Title: Maw

Chapter 2: Glowing Hearth

Summary: Batman stews and Joker giggles. Bruce Wayne is confuzzled. Arkham Asylum pulses darkly, looming like a nightmare, larger than life.

Pairing: Still Batman/Joker, yes, if you were wondering. Though not much slash yet. Pre-slash ;P

A/N: Thanks again to RavynneRune for letting me bug her about looking this over for me ;3 And thanks to everyone for the reviews. When I started this fic I had mainly just seen the Batman movies, a few of the episodes from the animated series, some random pages from comics/graphic novels that Ravynne had scanned in to share with me :3 And of course, _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth_, by Grant Morrison and Dave McKean_. _That was _very _inspirational, I highly recommend that one. My version of Joker is a combination of all the Jokers I suppose. The makeup I was referring to in the first chapter was his lipstick, mascara, eye shadow, eyeliner, that fun stuff :D And he definitely wears makeup, can provide links to scans of Frank Miller's _The Dark Knight Returns _if ya don't believe me ;P . The white of his skin I do attribute to the chemical bath though, hopefully that's made a little clearer in this chapter. Also, his hair would technically be white if all of his pigment was bleached away by the acid, including hair follicles. So yeah, to get his hair that pretty green he would have to dye it. Also explains the many different shades of green hair he's had through the years. His pale skin makes him seem more otherworldly, and the contrast between his white and Batman's black is lovely. The difference between the two is Joker's color doesn't wash off, but Batman can remove his black, even if it's still there inside. Batman can hide his "true colors" more easily, which is one of the reasons why he has a cave all to himself and most of the time Joker's stuck in Arkham.

Anywho, that's enough rambling :P Thanks again for the reviews, always nice to get those :D On with the show...

* * *

A dull glow lit the Dark Knight's face, reflecting from the computer screen. The clicking of fingers tapping the keyboard echoed across the gaping expanse of the Batcave. Occasionally the terminal would whir or beep, signaling Batman of an unearthed shard of information or a search meeting a dead end. Most of his regular nocturnal companions were out on the hunt, soaring and diving together in a dance the intricacies of which only they could see as they ambushed unsuspecting insects, crushing and consuming. A few nesting creatures remained, squeaking occasionally, restlessly crawling up the walls. Batman punched the "enter" key then pushed angrily away from the console.

"Is something the matter, Master Bruce?" Alfred entered the dimly lit area, his voice echoing in the chamber. Batman hadn't heard him coming down the stairs.

"Do you always appear out of thin air, Alfred?" Bruce pushed the dark cowl back from his face and removed the heavy cape.

Alfred chuckled, taking the proffered clothing.

"No, sir, I thought my entry was rather clumsy. However, I will be sure to make more noise on the way in next time."

"Good, see that you do." Bruce rubbed the back of his neck.

"Long night, sir?" Alfred inspected the cape. Seeing that there was no mud or, thank heavens, spatters of blood, he folded it neatly and placed it in the closet.

"No, there was _nothing_."

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"No joke. Not a blip on the radar." Bruce kicked off his boots and slid out of the Kevlar uniform, throwing on a thick robe.

"That is excellent news, Master Bruce. You deserve a night off, I say." Alfred nodded and smiled slightly, picking up the boots and tucking them neatly into a corner. The Kevlar suit he put in with the cape and cowl.

Bruce's bare feet slapped on stone as he headed up the long staircase. He much preferred the air on his skin, rather than socks or slippers, not minding the cold and damp of the cave.

"Yes, I suppose."

Alfred shook his head as the troubled man ascended into the manor through the darkened stairwell, fading from sight as the shadows absorbed him. Alfred had learned his lesson long before, he would not pry into the Master's deeper issues unless asked.

Half-formed thoughts crept upon Bruce as he climbed the stairs. They whispered in his mind, tempting him, insisting that he take an immediate and permanent vacation from the Bat.

_There are no more evils out there, Bruce. You've cleansed the city. It's over, done forever. Your time has been served and you are free to go._

_Gotham cannot be cleansed. Bruce countered. With a city this large, it's impossible not to have crime. It can't be done. No matter how good I think I might be. Even Metropolis still has crime, and I'm no Man of Steel… Gotham breeds crime in the filth lining the alleys and the muck covering the sewer walls. No one is safe in Gotham City._

The living room swayed as Bruce walked past. The grandfather clock drooped, numbers falling from its face. The glass of the French doors swirled and oozed down to the floor, puddling in shining silver pools. Black figures stretched forward to meet Bruce, leaping from one patch of moonlight to another. The dark forms called to him without sound, fingers brushing across his arms, caressing his face. As he continued on to the master bedroom they fell back, some settling on the furniture while others drifted softly down to the carpet like shadowed leaves of the Netherworld. There was no light in Hell, no fire to set the gnarled trees aflame. No warmth, only an utterly bitter cold, and the shadows.

Bruce slipped out of his robe and tossed it onto a desk chair. He trudged into the adjoining bathroom, pupils contracting as he flipped on the light. Turning on scalding hot water he stepped under the spray. The chill of the night fog still clung to his bones, nestling deep in the marrow. Steam filled the room and turned the mirror opaque. Shutting the shower off, Bruce rubbed his hair with a towel and then wrapped the cloth around his waist. Catching sight of his reflection, a dark shadow hovering in the mist, they stared at each other. Bruce switched off the light.

Flinging the pale towel over to the desk, it fluttered for a moment in the air before landing beside the robe. Pulling back the silk sheets of the four-poster bed, which shone a rich burgundy in the sunlight but were now just another shade of black, Bruce struggled to clear his mind. Closing his eyes he pictured a white expanse of nothing, distractions left behind with the shadows. Snow danced across the imagined landscape, blanketing an otherwise harsh reality. A lone tree stood bare, frozen stiff, its dark lines blurred in the bright light reflecting off the snowfall. No creatures stirred, not even a bat. There was only the tree, and the snow, ever falling. If all else failed, this was the vision Bruce used to calm his thoughts. Time and again its tranquility offered him a place to meditate. Stepping onto the crunching white powder, millions of tiny snowflakes each a distinct and separate masterpiece, were ground together under his black boot. He moved to the tree and sat down at its base. Cold crystals of water perched on his face and kissed his cheeks. He leant his head back against the trunk feeling each flake touch his skin, seeing their patterns in the dark behind his eyelids. Bruce planted his hands in the snow beside him, but he did not feel the cold. His splayed fingers were blue. Scooping some of the frozen precipitation into a ball, he threw it away. It arched lazily, thudding softly back to the Earth.

"Daddy?"

Bruce sat up quickly, disturbing snow from the overhead branches.

"Daddy, I'm over _here!_ Throw _this _way. I want to _play!"_

A giggle echoed across the expanse of white oblivion, riding the wind, circling him. Suddenly, he was Batman again, back out in the fog of Gotham, twirling with sharp precision. His eyes snapped open. Quickly turning on a lamp he scanned the room, eyes darting. There was no one.

"Bruce, you need to get a handle on this 'hearing things' business. Alfred's asleep, Dick's gone. There's no one but you and the bats in the basement."

The room remained silent.

He rubbed his face and sighed. "I'll call Dick tomorrow, might help…" he mumbled. Falling back against the pillows he shut off the light once more. Without white there was only black, and he succumbed to it.

oOoOo

"Rise and shine, Cupcake!"

A brute of an orderly slammed open the door, strolling into Joker's homey den. It also served as a dining room, living room, bedroom, recreation area, and storm cellar, though only on the good days. Occasionally, Joker was forced to… _make_ _nice_ with the other inmates. Yes, socializing with the psychopaths. What could have been a brilliant set up for a joke fell sadly short at the punch line. It lacked a certain something: style, finesse, a semblance of sanity. Joker hated being the butt of a joke, and currently that was exactly what was happening. A dribbling square-dance partner with, let's face it, two stumps for feet considering how well the appendages were being used, is a horrid excuse for a sparring mate. So if Joker was slightly desperate for a relatively sane conversation, he would have to be excused.

Joker groaned, the bright lights jabbing at his retinas like ice picks. He felt worse than he had last night. Oh the joys of captivity.

"What do you want?" barely unclenching his jaw to speak, Joker addressed the man with the rippling biceps and pectoral muscles of insurance policy. Once in a red moon, an inmate unearthed a cache of hope from somewhere deep inside their smothered soul and found the strength to frantically claw at the six feet of dirt above them. Just as they broke the surface, sucking in the air of freedom (which may have been smog-filled, but at least it didn't reek of sick) the sunlight filling their pores, the orderly would arrive and tuck them safely back into their little rectangles of space, the Hero. "Safely" with as many bumps, bruises, lacerations, and broken ribs as he could inflict along the way. Like an ax under glass with the words "break in case of emergency" written across the front; there were plenty of emergencies, and plenty of shattered glass. He was entirely fulfilled in his chosen profession.

"Brutus, 'Oaf Meat,' I asked you a question," Joker taunted from the bed, face still buried in the starched cotton sheets of the bed.

"My name is _not_ Brutus," he latched a fist onto Joker's shoulder, roughly flipping him over and grabbing the front of his straightjacket collar. He lifted him up and shook, until the tangled bedding fell away. "Or 'Oaf Meat.'"

"Well, what is it then? Speak up Dearest, Auntie's a little hard of hearing in the _moooorning_," Joker sing-songed in his best imitation of a cerulean warbler, grinning cheerfully as it came out rather well.

"It's _Chazz_," Chazz punctuated this by slamming Joker roughly against the wall, whose skull once again connecting painfully with the boundaries of the cell. For some reason it always felt like a bigger bruise if someone else inflicted the punishment. But this was nothing like it was with Batman. With Batman it was _fun_. It was a game. In _Arkham_ the rules weren't fair. It's not a game if one side sets the boundaries, keeps all the gold, and has the opposing team tied down to a cold slab of Justice. There is no control for the patient. For them it is a narration taking place at a drug-pumping rehabilitation center; because in Arkham, it's all in your head. All chemical imbalances, or 'self-inflicted' injuries, can be fixed by a little pill popping.

"Driving the point home, are we?" Joker moaned. His legs tensed as he prepared to lash out with his feet. It was that or use his teeth, and he wasn't sure where this _Chuck_ character had been; he didn't smell very clean.

Chazz reacted quickly, pinning Joker's legs to the wall with his bulky frame, flashy a toothy grin and grunting nacho breath across his face.

Joker's nose wrinkled, _'Who eats nachos for breakfast? Big bad brutes named "Chazz," that's who.'_ Wriggling, he struggled to free his legs. While he might not have the windup left for a swift kick to the groin, Joker knew other methods of gaining a foothold. He flashed a grin. Using leverage off the wall and the ogre's hand bunched in the fabric near the front of Joker's windpipe, he swung his legs free and wrapped them quickly around the man's waist, his feet not even meeting at the middle. Shifting his hips against Chazz's he arched his back, exposing the lily white skin of his neck which shone radiantly under the glaring lights. Batting his eye lashes he lowered the tenor of his voice.

"Oh gee, Officer, whatever shall we do next?" Joker giggled and tossed his hair as well as he could with the back of his head pressed against the wall.

Chazz's face flushed and he dropped the flirtatious inmate like a hot stone, tossing him back over to the bed.

Joker bounced giddily. "Oh! The _bed,_ is it? Well, that's_ certainly_ a good choice," he winked at the flustered man, whose face seemed to be turning a lovely shade of beet. "Come on over, there's room for two," using his foot he tapped the empty space next to him. "Don't be shy, big boy. Oh, and I'm cheap, I swear! See, my makeup's all smeared, I'm literally a two dollar whore," he cackled.

Chazz sneered.

"Okay, one dollar? Fifty cents? I can go lower, it's not like I have anything else to do…" had Joker's arms been free he would have twirled a lock of faded emerald hair around his whiter-than-anything finger, but they weren't so he didn't, and instead settled on peering innocently around the room as if searching for something better to do than proposition his guard for the day.

"Faggot," Chazz spat suddenly.

Joker blinked.

"…"

"Honey," Joker's voice had raised an octave and he adopted an accent, reminiscent of a Southern, cornbread-fed country bumpkin. "I never met a man who didn't turn 'fag' for me. No one's ever turned me down. Not that I would have let 'em!" Joker threw his head back and shrieked with delight. "Not my fault I have _mad _skills. Use what your mamma gave you, as they say!"

Chazz glared, but neglected to verbally respond to the babbling inmate's statements. "Get up Joker, you know the drill."

"Yes, yes I do," he sighed and rolled off the bed. He was sure to get out on the right side one of these days.

"You're no fun, you know that?"

"Keep moving," Chazz grunted. "Showers."

Joker sighed, not even touching that one; it would have been so easy too! But there was no sense in wasting good jokes on humorless souls. Nodding, Joker went along, marching out of the open cell door and down the hallway; his sterilized reflection stretched out before him on the tile. Such easy compliance usually gave the quacks running the place the heebie-jeebies, so used to erratic behavior as they were. Joker's face went blank.

Right on cue, Chazz gave him a sidelong look. Joker stared glassily ahead and continued in the sober state through designated shower time, methodically cleansing himself under the lukewarm spray. He sighed quietly, not loud enough for Brute Strength to hear, as the day old mascara ran down his pale cheeks and into the endless drain below. With his makeup washed away, the Joker was so unbelievably pale he tended to jump when catching sight of himself in the mirror. He looked wholly different without it accenting his gorgeous features; a clean slate. Joker only looked like someone else though, he really wasn't. It was simply a convenient illusion. What he wouldn't give for some red running down the holes in the floor…

Rows of bodiless heads mounted high on the walls dripped steadily around him. The showers were deserted, dank and lifeless. The somber was catching. Shower was generally the brightest time of the day. The straightjacket came off and stayed off for a few precious hours, through a nourishing first meal at the least. There wasn't enough staff to hand feed them all, and no one wanted to lose a finger.

Down in the mess area, the kitchen was serving a balanced breakfast of mushy apples and scrambled eggs so delicious and rubbery, one would imagine they came from the underside of a prison boot.

Chazz followed behind Joker through the assembly line of food distribution, steered him to a seat, then deeming the situation under control left to find another inmate to crush and burgeon his own self-esteem in the process.

Joker poked at the grey matter on his tray with a dull spork. The crushed ova may at one point been yellow, but had been cooked beyond having any semblance of color, the poor dears. He stuck his utensil in the pile of chick mush; it stood on its own, swaying like a drunken sailor. Staring at it jiggle for a moment, he then raised his hand, looking around politely. None of the remaining orderlies was making eye contact. Of course.

Breaking his somber mode of obedience, he called out to the nearest attendant, "Hey! Can we get some pepper over here? Some hot sauce, ketchup, _something?_ These eggs taste like skunk tire." Joker sneered down at his plate. No one answered his pleas. "Yeah, figured," he shrugged then shoveled down what was left of his breakfast, trying not to taste it.

There was the chink of plasticware on plastic plates, but no murmur of conversation. The wards called it "quiet time." They called just about everything "quiet time." They really needed to get out more.

"Hey, Crane," Joker hissed, nudging the demur, former professor sitting next to him. "Wanna hear a good one?"

The doctor muttered something incoherent, not lifting his eyes.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" Joker removed the plate from his tray, setting it on the table. "What's black and blue and red all over?"

He blinked.

"Your_ face!"_ Joker shrieked, picking up the plastic tray and whacking the side of the man's head. The force of the blow sent him flying off the bench and onto the floor, a mouthful of fruit spraying on the back of the Mad Hatter. Joker leapt up and whooped. "Lookie, thar'! Knocked the stuffin' right outta ya!"

Immediate whistles blew and alarms began ringing. The hall erupted in activity, psychos and psycho keepers alike rushing into action. Two-Face stabbed his neighbor's hand with a discarded spork after flipping a scarred coin heads up. Magpie quickly shoveled as many shining items as she could down her pants. Junkyard dog ran to the trash bins, knocking them over and rolling in the waste. The March Hare bounded across the room, leaping onto the back of the Mad Hatter.

"Would you like some more_ tea?!"_ Mr. Hare screeched and closed a furry fist around a rolling cup. He slammed it into Mad Hatter's face, knocking out a tooth and crunching his nose. Blood flowed.

"This is what I call a _party!"_ Joker continued to cackle even as the guards rushed in and subdued the scene.

Two-Face flipped his coin once more. "It's the feds, scram!" he shouted above the din. No one listened.

As Joker was roughly shoved back into the restrictive jacket and thrown into a solitary cell, the heavy door booming shut behind him, he grinned. Solitary was pitch-black. Maybe now he'd get some sleep.


End file.
